


Thanksgiving

by FionaPhoenix



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Dinner, Family Dynamics, Family Video (Stranger Things), Fluff, Friendship, Hawkins (Stranger Things), Inspired by Stranger Things (TV 2016), Post-Stranger Things 3, Romance, Scoops Ahoy, Semi-Self Insert, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Starcourt Mall (Stranger Things), Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Steve Harrington-centric, Stranger Things Spoilers, steve harrington character study
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-01-08 02:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21228179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FionaPhoenix/pseuds/FionaPhoenix
Summary: It's Autumn of 1985 in Hawkins.  The summer's events are still settling, the Christmas season approaches, and the Harringtons have invited old friends over for a pre-holiday dinner.  Steve dreads the evening, expecting to walk through a showcase of his failings, but he's entirely unprepared for the unexpected third guest and how one night could change everything.





	1. An Unexpected Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For once, Steve had wanted to be prepared. To have a game plan. To not come out of a situation looking like a joke."

**NOVEMBER 19th, 1985**

Steve wore a suit. Wine red with satin lapels. White shirt, no tie.

At first, he’d resisted his father’s insistence that the whole family dress formally for the evening. It’s not like it was a business dinner, just his dad’s old college buddy, visiting for the holidays. Who were they trying to impress? What did Steve care?

But then he changed his mind. He took on the chance to smarten up with gusto because — as he reminded himself constantly the entire afternoon — the evening was going to be a disaster. The only thing he could do was look sharp.

Knowing his father, however, even good looks might get twisted against Steve.

_Impress any girls with that mug of yours lately?_ Something like that.

Standing before his mirror, still tossing his hair — more out of habit and stalling than necessity at this point — Steve winced and dropped his hands. He looked away from his reflection, casting an uneasy glance towards his closed bedroom door.

“Just get it over with,” he mumbled.

That had been Robin’s advice. Yes, it would be awful — a full night’s worth of snide innuendo at his expense — but there was no way around it.

“And it’s not like they’re going to say anything that isn’t true, or you don’t already know,” she’d said.

Of course, Steve had also considered that his father might try to avoid the topic of his son’s unfortunate state of affairs altogether, to make himself look better. In fact, Steve had initially wondered why his father would _want_ to parade him out in front of an old friend and showcase the wide variety of his failures. Wouldn’t that just reflect badly on him?

Again, Robin had deduced that one. “Maybe hoping to light a fire under your ass?” She’d shrugged. “Does it matter?”

It did to Steve. For once, he’d wanted to be prepared. To have a game plan. To not come out of a situation looking like a joke. Hence the suit.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. He swore he could feel the reverberation of it through the floor, through his shoes. A somber, death-like tone.

“Steve!” his father hollered.

_That_ rattled his teeth.

By the time Steve reached the top of the stairs, the foyer already rang with overlapping voices and jazz, floating in from the living room. Below, Steve’s father, Jack, stood in a tight handshake from the guest of honor — Frank Sanders — who lingered just over the threshold. The two men slapped each other’s shoulders and exchanged phrases like, “such a long time,” and “looking good.” Steve’s mother, Eileen, took Frank’s wife’s coat as she followed inside. Steve didn’t know her name. His dad only ever mentioned Frank.

The voices all merged in a senseless din, unpleasant and predictable. It ground Steve’s nerves.

He looked down as he descended the stairs, grateful to have gone unnoticed thus far. As he reached the last step, however, he heard his name.

“…perfectly all right. Our son, Steve, will be joining us, as well.”

Steve’s head swung up. The whole group had turned to gawk at him — except one. A girl about Steve’s age now stood among the gaggle of parents and she was staring hard at her shoes. With one ankle wrapped around the other and her hands twisted together, she looked like she would coil up further if she were able.

_What the hell — ? _

Steve looked immediately to his dad for some kind of direction. The blank-eyed, tight-jawed face waiting for him was all too familiar; a red-hot warning.

_Don’t fuck this up for me, Steven. _

Steve didn’t know the details of this situation, but it didn’t matter. He had to stop himself from swearing aloud, let alone keep the dread off his face.

_Shit_. Set up to fail — again. _Shit, shit, shit, shit — _

Frank stepped forward, detaching from the group, and extended his arm, hand outstretched. Steve braced for some varied rendition of his father’s bravado, but Frank’s smile seemed surprisingly sincere.

“Steve,” he said, “it’s nice to finally meet you.”

Too surprised to speak, Steve shook the man’s hand. His grip was strong, but not bone-breaking.

“Steve,” Eileen said behind them, “Frank and Miranda brought their daughter, Christine along.”

Jack laughed. “Obviously, Eileen.”

Steve glanced back at her — Christine — who was only just now taking off her grey peacoat. Unlike the other women, dolled up in dresses, Christine wore a plain grey skirt and a dark green sweater. A few blemishes spotted her temple and jaw, and she didn’t seem to be wearing makeup, but there was something striking about her nonetheless. Her straight, brown hair fell almost to her waist, which was unusual (at least in Hawkins), and she wore glasses; thin, gold frames that somehow still masked most of her face.

Her eyes flicked up to him, but only for a moment.

_Embarrassed_, Steve realized. _She looks embarrassed._

He fought an irrational impulse to look himself over. Was his shirt on backwards or something? Had the suit been a mistake after all?

“Apologies, again, for the change in plans,” Miranda said. “We hate to put you out.”

“Nonsense.” Jack’s grin expanded, splitting his face wider. “The more, the merrier.” The bite in his voice sent a chill across the back of Steve’s neck.

“We’ll be an even table, after all!” Eileen chortled.

“But enough standing around in here, come in, come in!” Jack flung his arm out and led the way past the stairs, into the massive living room. The rest of the parents followed down the hall, out of sight. Steve lingered by the stair railing and waited for Christine to pass, so he could trail out last and hover as far away from the conversation as possible —

But Christine only took maybe a half step, then stopped and stared blankly ahead.

The music streaming in from the living room faded and the awkward, resulting silence seemed to last an eternity.

“Sorry,” Christine mumbled, so suddenly, it made him jump.

A new song began; the same generic jazz, but the sound, however faint, eased the tension.

“About what?” Steve asked.

“This.” Christine gestured to the living room, to herself, and to Steve in a jerky circle.

“The dinner?” Steve said.

She looked at him fully for the first time. In stark contrast to her body language, her expression was stony. Cool. Behind the glasses, her eyes were smoky green. Facing her squarely, at a closer distance, her features were sharper and her discomfort much more tangible in the tiny space. Even though her outfit was far more casual than everyone else’s, Steve felt a paradoxical concern that he had _unde_rdressed.

“If I wasn’t here, you probably wouldn’t have to be, either,” she said.

It took a second, then: “Oh.”

_She’s saying this is a setup? _

It would explain her hunched shoulders, twisted limbs, and her repeated move of looking down at her shoes — which she did just then, yet again.

“It’s no big deal,” she said. “Don’t feel…obligated or anything. We can just stand here until dinner’s ready. Or go in.” She shrugged. “Whatever.”

Old instincts kicked in; make conversation, flirt, be charming. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “That sounds boring.”

Her head swiveled back to him again, surprised. “Which part?”

“All of it. This is probably better anyway.” He meant it, too. He’d much rather hide out in the hallway with someone his own age if it meant avoiding his parents, even for a few minutes at a time.

Christine seemed to brighten a little, but her smile wavered. “I don’t know. I’m not…”

He thought he heard her breath catch, just before she swallowed, hard, and winced, like it hurt.

“Not what?” he asked, taking a step closer to her. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes flicked back and forth between his, considering. Just as she opened her mouth to answer, a timer screeched from the kitchen and shattered the calm.

“Dinner’s ready!” Eileen called.

Christine’s jaw slammed shut. She blinked, adopted another feeble, fake-looking smile and nodded before she walked on, down the hall.

Steve followed, but an inexplicable concern nagged at him. That look on her face, that sound she made…

Distracted as he entered the dining room, Steve didn’t notice his father come up behind him until he clapped onto Steve’s shoulder and steered him towards a specific chair. Plunked down, Steve found himself seated across from Christine. Those green eyes flicked back and forth between Steve and his father as he moved away, but then she lifted her eyebrows at him, along with her hand as if to say, _see?_

He smiled — even had to fight back a laugh. The bizarre nature of it all, their silent exchange, and this flash of candor from her… it felt conspiratorial, like sharing an inside joke. She smiled back; still slight, but real, not tinged or filtered, and for the half-second that Steve saw it, it lit up her whole face — stunning.

Then she dropped her gaze and the shine vanished.

The others sat down around them and dishes appeared, steaming and picturesque, as though plucked from a catalog.

Dinner itself passed by in a blur. Steve kept glancing back at Christine, hoping he might catch her eye again, but he never did. In fact, she seemed to be actively avoiding him. A few times he noticed her looking vaguely in his direction; sidelong glances that just didn’t quite reach him.

The conversation was dull and didn’t involve either of the kids, which suited Steve just fine. He was relieved, more than anything, that his prediction had proved accurate; his father would ignore Steve, rather than call him into the spotlight.

Until, however, Frank mentioned sports; specifically, those at Hawkins High.

“I remember being so nostalgic for Homecoming those first couple years at college. Even with all their own fanfare,” he said. “You play ball, don’t you, Steve?”

“I did,” Steve mumbled. “Not much anymore.”

“Really? How come?”

“Well…” _School ended, my friends and teammates are now in college, aren’t speaking to me, or they’re dead._ “…I got hurt.”

“What happened?” Miranda asked.

“You remember all that chaos around the Starcourt Mall a few months ago?” Jack said.

“Of course. The explosion was all over the news,” Frank said.

“Made headlines in the papers for weeks,” Miranda added.

“Mmm. Steven was there the night it blew up.”

Like earlier, every head swiveled in Steve’s direction.

“Just bad luck,” he said before the questions could start. “I worked there. My coworker and I stuck around after hours. Just hanging out, you know? Nowhere else to go. The place was totally deserted, so we had no clue anything weird was going on until the fire alarm went off. It all happened really fast. We got up to leave, but not quickly enough, I guess. I got kind of banged up, so I had to take it easy for a while.”

He’d recited this story dozens of times. Random people had approached him in the street and the video store, hungry for details. Mostly they were strangers, although some faces looked vaguely familiar; probably customers from Scoops he hadn’t remembered. They would bombard him with questions and he’d recite the tale — as he’d been instructed by multiple government officials — they’d decide it was uninteresting, and he never saw them again. Steve preferred it that way, though he was never sure how they’d even learned of his presence there in the first place.

“How banged up?” Miranda asked.

“Very,” Eileen answered. “Three broken ribs, detached retina, mild concussion, and a lot of bruises.” She cast her son a watery glance. “Five years of sports, we’d seen some injuries, but nothing like that.”

Steve couldn’t hold her gaze out of embarrassment and guilt. He saw Frank and Miranda gape at his mother, but Christine watched Steve. When he looked back, though, she dropped her eyes.

“That must have been a shock,” Frank said. “For you both,” he added.

Steve didn’t know what to make of his father’s answering nod.

“And I guess that would keep you off your feet for quite a while,” Frank concluded.

Steve nodded.

“What about your job?” Miranda asked.

Steve shrugged. “Got a new one. Nothing special.”

“Ever thought about volunteering?” Frank asked. “From what I remember, the community center down on Fifth Street was always looking for assistant coaches, field maintenance help, that sort of thing. Nothing too strenuous, but important all the same.”

“Assistant coaches?” Steve repeated.

“For local teams. Mostly kids, but teens too. They sponsor Little League and Junior League in the spring. They put on a good game.”

Eileen smiled. “How do you know this?”

“I used to help out when I was home on summer break. Back in the good ol’ days,” he added to Jack, who laughed. “It was fun. Built character.”

Steve sat up a little straighter. “Is it paid?”

Frank grinned. “No. But positions open up every once in a while. Probably none this far into the season. Might be something after the new year, though.”

Steve stared at his plate. _Volunteering. Assistant coaching. Junior League._ He’d never considered anything like that. In recent months, the loss of his team had begun to weigh painfully on him. No, he’d never been a star player — not really — but he missed the camaraderie, the sense of purpose. It surprised him suddenly how much he had missed it, and how much he’d been ignoring its absence.

_Just one more thing. _

Down the table, Frank offered an encouraging smile. “Think about it.”

“I will,” Steve said. “Thanks.”

After everyone finished eating, the parents stood from the table, abandoned their empty plates, and migrated back to the living room for coffee. Or, so they said. Steve presumed they’d very likely be breaking out the wine or brandy or some other booze all too soon. He wanted to be anywhere but near his father, once alcohol was involved.

But he still didn’t think he could totally get away with disappearing. He stood and hovered by the gaping entrance to the adjacent room, resting his arm on the wall. Even though the group’s chatter washed over him in a dull, distant rumble, Steve felt a faint envy in his gut; Christine seemed far luckier in her parents than he was.

_Christine_.

He turned back around. She still sat with her elbows on the table, hands clasped together under her chin. She stared down at her plate, which was still half-full, like she’d barely eaten anything.

Steve felt another wave of irrational concern. “Hey…”

She sat back, as though startled out of a reverie.

“Seriously. You all right?”

“No.” It surprised them both — she looked at him quickly, eyes wide. Before he could respond, though, she waved her hand. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s no big deal. Just been a rough couple of months is all. Nothing like what you’ve been through, it sounds like, but, still.”

She laughed, but the sound lacked any real joy. Steve felt the resonance of it against his skin — eerily familiar. Sad. Whatever lightness he’d glimpsed earlier had completely vanished. In fact, she looked on the verge of tears.

Steve cast around for a solution. “You want to go outside? Get some air?”

She blinked at him, not following.

“It’s not too cold, and it’s… well…” He glanced over his shoulder, towards the cluster of parents. “It’s not in here,” he whispered.

She considered, then: “That’d be great, actually.”

“One second.” He backtracked, slipping along the wall and back down the front hall to grab coats from the closet; her peacoat and his jacket. Holding them both in one hand as he shut the closet door again, he noticed offhand their similar shades — both grey.

When he turned back around, he found Christine approaching, only a few paces behind him. He handed over her coat, then led the way back down the hall and through the living room, towards the sliding glass door – on the other side of the parents. Still keeping to the wall as much as possible, Steve thought they might not notice —

“Where are you going?” his father called.

Steve stopped and turned. “Just outside. For some fresh air.”

He turned to look at Christine, who was buttoning her coat. To his shock, she looked entirely relaxed and casual. She smiled, all ease and friendliness, and looked from him to the adults and nodded.

“It’s freezing,” her mother said.

“Cold can be nice sometimes.” Christine finished her last button and gestured, mildly, for Steve to continue towards the door. He obliged, unhitched the bolt and slid open the glass.

“Stay out of the pool,” Jack said as Christine passed in front of Steve. He threw his father a bitter look, but as their eyes met, intimidation once again oozed out of Jack’s hard, upward glance. Steve’s derision faltered and he followed Christine outside.

As the door slid shut and all the sound from within stopped — music, voices, even the hum of the lights — the wide breadth of the outdoors filled in with only a few crickets chirping.

By the time Steve turned around, Christine had already crossed the patio, descended the steps, and stood by the pool; covered since October.

Steve approached slowly, scuffing his steps a little so he wouldn’t sneak up on her. The closer he got, however, the more her shoulders seemed to hunch. Old instincts kicked in again — charm, flatter, make light — but he hesitated. It had been a long time since he was in the company of someone on the verge of a breakdown.

That thought made him stop in his tracks. If she was really was in the midst of something terrible, would she want space? Is that why she leapt at the suggestion to come outside?

_Don’t fuck this up for me, Steven._

Steve flinched. He didn’t care if his father approved of his behavior, but with his tendency to fail — however earnest or well-meaning his intentions — he held back. Whatever was bothering Christine, Steve would probably just make it worse. He should just let her be.

But even standing a healthy distance behind her, he could see a frown tugging at her mouth. The act she’d just performed in the living room must have cost her considerable effort, because the facade was dissolving rapidly.

He couldn’t just walk away.

“Do you…want to talk about it?” Steve stepped carefully up next to her. “Whatever it is? Or do you want space?”

“That’d be rude, wouldn’t it?” she said. “I mean, it’s your house, your yard. I can’t ask you to — ”

“You didn’t. I offered.”

“I’m fine, honest.”

Steve didn’t buy it for a second.

“My life is just kind of a mess.” Her face crumpled. She covered her mouth with her hand and turned her head to the side, away from Steve, but he’d seen. Her breathing came in short, uneven bursts.

_She’s crying. Openly crying._

Panic swooped in, again urging Steve to retreat — _don’t say anything, you’ll just upset her more_ — but also dive in deeper — _help her! Fix it! Make it stop_ — causing him to stall, rooted to the concrete, and silently watch Christine’s shoulders shake.

Useless.

“Can I do anything?” The words felt lame and hollow, but he couldn’t think of anything better, which just ground harder at his pointlessness.

She shook her head. “Sorry.” Her voice was muffled; probably spoken through her hand.

Steve blinked. _Why is _she_ apologizing?_

She turned halfway around; her eyes shining and damp. “Just…please don’t tell my parents, okay?”

“Sure, yeah,” he said immediately. “I mean, okay.”

“And when you tell your friends about this, tomorrow or whenever, if you can maybe… not laugh too much. Not judge too harshly?”

It stung. No, more than that; it bit deep. Two years ago, he would have unquestionably reflected on all this with ridicule and at least snickered if not more; heartless bastard he was then.

He felt a rush of gratitude towards Jonathan Byers and the all-too-deserved punch — and subsequent beatdown — that followed.

The only answer Steve could muster was a very stoic, “I won’t.” But at least it was honest.

He knew he shouldn’t ask. It wasn’t his place. But he couldn’t help himself. “What happened?” He expected her to dismiss it again, or reveal something tragic, like the death of a relative.

“It’s stupid, really. I’ll get over it. I’ll _be_ fine, it’s just right _now_…” Her voice rattled on the last few words, but she kept going. “I just don’t know what to _do._ Everything’s just… over. Graduation happened and…” She threw both her hands in the air, fingers spread wide, simulating a small explosion. “Nothing. All my friends got into these amazing schools and left because they know what they want to do. _They’ve_ been planning for_ever_. Meanwhile, I’m stalled. Aimless. I haven’t prepared and I haven’t accomplished _anything_. And even if I’d gotten the grades for a university, I could never afford it.”

Her face contracted again, though not as much as before, and she didn’t turn away this time. “I’ve been using that as an excuse for why I stayed home, but the truth is that, yeah, I’m embarrassed, but I’m also _relieved_, which is humiliating in a whole different way. And all the time, I’m scared I’ve let them down” — she gestured towards the house, her voice shrill and shaking — “and I just don’t know what I want to _do_, I feel like such a failure — ”

She said all this in a wobbly rush and cut herself off with an odd, gulping sound.

“Easy.” Steve took a step closer to brace her shoulder — lightly — and she jumped. Her eyes swung back to him, wide and staring like she forgot he was there, mildly horrified. She said nothing, waiting for his reaction, but he remained just as frozen with his hand quasi-perched on her shoulder. His mind reeled from her words. It was like she’d reached into his psyche and dragged out every little detail of thought he’d been suppressing since last fall. A mess of congealed defeat, self-doubt, and other sickening emotions, shoved to the dark corners of his mind, out of sight.

But he’d always felt it there, like a weight strapped to his ankle, dragging on each step. Hearing Christine’s speech was like looking down to find an open wound; that the ankle weight had had an edge, a razor blade taped to it all this time, and he was bleeding.

“Take a breath,” he finally managed; half to her, half to himself.

She did, gasping louder and deeper than he expected — implying she was still expending a great deal of effort hiding how much she was feeling — followed by a choking sort of sound — like a breathless laugh.

“And then what?”

Steve grimaced. “Still working on that myself,” he admitted.

Christine’s eyes were wide and somehow visibly red, even in the limited light from the house.

“That big, empty space you’re talking about? I’m staring it down, too. I’ve got no future to speak of and everything’s just…”

“Upside down,” she finished.

He felt a leap in his stomach, like missing a step. Her face was calm, though; mid-breakdown, but not implying any otherworldly knowledge.

_It’s just an expression_.

He had to resist a smile because he knew he wouldn’t be able to explain it.

“I don’t know if I even want to go to college,” Christine said. “I’ve always been basically okay with being by myself, on my own, but now that idea feels so empty. Like I’m just constantly defending myself, hiding. Hoping no one catches on.”

The last word was little more than a sigh and the tension in her shoulders eased. “I hadn’t really said any of that out loud. I didn’t realize how…”

“Damn scary it all is?” Steve offered.

The muscles tightened in her jaw and she nodded. “Yeah, it’s terrifying. It’s like…shit, what now? I didn’t get into college. My essay was a joke. So was my athletics career, apparently. Rejection just doesn’t seem like a harsh enough word. I couldn’t even get in to _trade school_.”

He had a momentary flash of deja-vu from when he’d rattled off his litany of failings to Robin back in July. This felt different, though. Christine wouldn’t ridicule him. She had said all the same things. For the first time since he could ever remember, he didn’t have to be defensive. Just honest. “So, now I’ve got no team, no friends — ”

“Team?”

“Basketball.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Doesn’t matter, though.” He tilted his head back and stared up at the sky, trying not to slip into his own sense of wounded pride. “The friends I _did_ have turned out to be assholes, which rubbed off on me, so it’s probably best we don’t speak anymore. I don’t know, maybe everything happens for a reason.” He snorted, not remotely believing it, and looked back down to meet Christine’s waiting gaze. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“What was the big loss?”

“Nothing cool, that’s for sure.” She half-heartedly lifted one shoulder. “The not being so lonely? The security of just another year at school?”

She tilted her head down at a slightly different angle, making her glasses catch the light, splitting it into diagonal shadows across her cheek and jaw; elegant and bizarre at the same time.

_Like her._

Christine took a breath and wiped her eyes. She laughed — a real, full laugh for the first time all night — followed by a heavy sigh.

“Ugh, I swear I’m not normally like this. So dramatic. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Except for all the apologies. You’ve said ‘sorry,’ like twelve times tonight.”

“It wasn’t twelve.”

“It was close.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile lingered.

“Anyway,” he said, “if anything, I should be thanking you.”

“_Why?_”

“Because everything you said was…validating or something.” It sounded awkward and clunky — nothing like the eloquence of her earlier speech — but he plunged on. “No one’s understood or… I don’t know, appreciated? — what life’s been like since graduation. But you, like…sized it up perfectly. I don’t know, it was just…nice to hear.”

She stared back at him, her hand hovering in midair by her face.

His turn. “Sorry, that’s weird and stupid, but — ”

“No.” Her smile didn’t grow wider. Her eyebrows didn’t twitch upwards. She wasn’t laughing at him, silently or otherwise. She just continued to peer at him, surprised, and… _impressed?_

He dismissed that idea immediately. Too much to hope for.

“That’s…sweet,” she said.

As Steve’s mind stuttered over those words, she cleared her throat. “But I think you’ll be fine.”

“What?”

“You check a lot of the boxes. You’re a good-looking guy, connected” — she glanced up at the house — “you’re nice, and you’ve got a background in sports? It probably won’t take long for some path to open up for you.”

He blinked, shocked, but saw an opening and let slip a small smirk. “Good-looking, huh?”

Her brows creased momentarily before she smiled and dropped her gaze, ducking her head. Steve was suddenly very glad he wore the suit.

“You sound like you’re feeling better,” he said.

“Yeah.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. Pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. Nervous again, but different from earlier. Her fragile, cracking strain was gone. Even her hair moved more freely in the faint breeze.

“I guess I just needed the chance to let all of that out.” She turned to face him squarely, and when she looked up, their eyes locked. “Thanks for giving me the space to do that.”

At dinner, they’d been seated opposite one another, sure, but with a table, cutlery, and a vase between them. Now, they stood face-to-face, less than a foot apart. At close range — just like in the foyer — something about her rattled Steve, but also inexplicably drew him in.

True, he’d been a little off his game with girls ever since his breakup with Nancy — well, since graduation, really — but a moment like this still should have been familiar, not uncanny and strange. After she’d practically blushed from his flirtation? _This should be easy._ He should have had control — he thought he had — but Christine didn’t appear to have it, either. There didn’t seem to be any power dynamic in play at all.

Behind the frames, her eyes gleamed, somehow both bright and dark at the same time. They moved around, scrutinizing Steve’s face in turn. She actually looked at him, in a way no one had in ages. Coupled with her earlier talk, he wasn’t sure anyone had even seen him like she did now.

He hoped — shakingly — that she liked what she saw.

A _whoosh_ of sliding glass made them both jump. Steve spun around just as Eileen stuck her head out of the back door.

“Hey, you two! How about some coffee?” She shuddered and made a gasping sound to match. “How have you been out here so long? It’s freezing!”

Steve glanced at Christine, who shrugged and nodded at the same time. So they ambled back up to the house in silence.

Once inside, Steve carried both coats to the closet. By the time he returned in the living room, Christine had moved to stand next to her mother, who sat in a chair near the back door.

Eileen appeared at Steve’s side with a cup and saucer for him. He took it and followed her further into the room.

Jack threw Steve a glance over his shoulder; so fleeting, Steve hadn’t even registered his expression. It must have been the first time in countless years that Steve had been distracted enough — even for a moment — to entirely miss an evaluation from his father. The mere fact that his father’s gaze hadn’t lingered implied that Steve must have done well — or, at least, hadn’t screwed up.

“Hawkins must be so dull for you, compared to DC,” Eileen was saying apologetically to Christine. “I hope you’re not too bored with our sleepy little town.”

Christine shook her head. “No, I’m reading a lot.”

“Really?” Jack said. He sounded mildly impressed. “Reading what?”

“Old favorites, mostly. Comfort reads.”

Steve stared. ‘_Comfort reads_’?

“We reread The Lord of the Rings together over Christmas sometimes,” Miranda added. “But this year, she got a head start with The Hobbit.”

Christine threw a cursory look at Steve, then half-grimaced at Jack. Steve, meanwhile, had to suppress a laugh. _Another nerd._ She might even get along with Dustin — and Mike and Lucas and Will — better than he did. _I’m surrounded._

Dustin’s advice floated, unbidden, into his mind: _Don’t you think it’s time you move on from primitive constructs such as popularity?_

Probably. Steve still didn’t think he’d like the things they did, or be able to follow any of it, but for the first time he wondered if he should just give in and check out those stupid books — a bold thought, one he’d never even conceive of even a few weeks ago out of a sheer desire to avoid any association with anything remotely nerdy.

Steve drank his coffee. The conversation around him still seemed jovial; everyone was smiling, all postures relaxed. Even Christine’s. Perched on the edge of Miranda’s chair, she held a saucer and empty cup in her lap.

_Was she cold or does she just like coffee?_ Steve wondered. He found that he wished he could ask; there, then, interrupt the chatter to focus on her. He wouldn’t, of course; nor could he see a way to extract them from the living room again. And even if he could, Christine looked… well, not comfortable, exactly, but less pained than before. Her earlier, strained demeanor had lifted even further. The taut lines in her neck had softened and her frown had receded. More than anything, she just looked tired, with heavy-lidded eyes and a slouched posture. Did she still want to go, but for different reasons?

He hoped not.

And with that thought, it suddenly dawned on Steve that the evening was drawing to a rapid close. The Sanders would leave soon. He hadn’t been paying attention; earlier, when he’d descended the stairs in a cloud of gloom, he’d been banking on that idea: _this dinner will end eventually, I just have to ride it out._ Now, he felt locked in an all-too-short countdown. The minutes ticked by, each voice sounding like it was winding down, to the end of the conversation.

_We’re not likely to even speak again after this. _

Steve even answered questions both his father and Frank tossed at him about the forthcoming Thanksgiving football games and players, and all the while he tried not to watch Christine.

He recalled her answer about being all right. _I will be._

While he did worry, he also just wanted to stay in touch; but found himself in uncharted territory. He wanted to get her phone number — wanted to call her later, check in on her, maybe even as soon as the next day — but even the very idea of asking for it felt…awkward. He had desperately tried to snag numbers from girls all summer at Scoops Ahoy.

_Yet here’s this girl that I genuinely seem to have connected with — wonder of wonders — and I’m not going to go for it?_

This wasn’t like his summer spell, trying to scramble for some semblance of his stud days of yore. He cringed, thinking of his desperation; he took a shot at any girl he recognized that walked into that ice cream parlor — or just about.

Dustin’s words taunted him again. _Instead of dating somebody because you think it’s gonna make you cooler, why not date somebody you actually enjoy being around?_

He wasn’t even sure he wanted to ask Christine out. He just hoped to stay in touch. And, you know, maybe get to know her more, offer her some company while she was stuck here over the holidays.

_The only way to do that, though, is to get her number._

But he just couldn’t do it. Just forming the words in his mind made his stomach churn and roll.

Once the coffee was finished and the record stopped on the turntable, the Sanders made noises about it probably being time to leave. Both families migrated towards the foyer, pulling out coats. Steve hung back like he did at the start of the evening, when he’d wanted to be anywhere else. Now, he wanted to get closer, but didn’t know how.

They all spilled out onto the front steps to make their goodbyes. Frank was inviting Jack to watch a game together at the local bar “for old time’s sake.” Steve hardly noticed.

_This is it. Your chance is disappearing. _

“Steve, you’d be welcome, too, of course.” Frank’s smile remained sincere, as it had all night.

“Oh. Sure, yeah, if I’m not working,” Steve said.

As soon as the parents were all preoccupied with each other again, he tried to catch Christine’s eye — and got it, immediately.

_Say something! _

_Yeah, like what? Just blurt out a request in front of all four parents? _

That felt…wrong.

Actual good-byes started swapping back and forth; _take cares_ and _good seeing yous_ and, in his peripheral vision, Steve could make out more shoulder-slapping between both fathers. Christine’s gaze fluttered between the pavement, his parents, her parents, Steve himself, then away entirely, towards the car.

Impulsively, and at a loss for anything else, Steve offered his right hand, business-like, to Christine. “Happy Thanksgiving."

She accepted it. “You too.”

The shaking slowed, then stopped entirely, and for half a moment, their clasped hands sat still and idle, but entwined.

Never before had such a common, innocent gesture carried more weight.

Frank and Miranda retreated down the walkway towards their car. Christine’s hand slipped free and she turned to follow her parents.

All three Harringtons watched their guests climb into a dark blue car, but as it disappeared down the driveway, only Steve lingered outside. Without his jacket, the cold was seeping through his suit, but he hardly cared, too distracted, too dazed by a bizarre fusion of cheer, defeat, and delight. He felt both energized and shaken.

He’d lost his chance. He could ask his parents for a way to get in touch with the Sanders again, but the idea put a bad taste in his mouth immediately. He couldn’t explain why. He had no interest in going with his father in any social capacity, even though he wouldn’t mind talking sports with Frank. And, either way, that outing would not involve his daughter.

The car was totally out of sight now. Steve couldn’t even make out the tail lights anymore.

He went back inside.

In the foyer, he leaned against the closed door and listened to his parents' voices, drifting in either from the dining room, discussing whether or not they should leave the dishes and the mess for their housekeeper the next morning.

“We should put the food away, at least, since there’s so much left over,” Eileen insisted.

Steve took the opportunity to escape up to his room. He discarded his suit jacket and loosened his shirt, playing the evening back over again in his head, particularly the conversation by the pool. Why had that exchange meant so much? What even happened?

_And that handshake…_

He moved over to his window and pulled the curtain aside, staring down at the spot where he and Christine had stood.

For years, this view had always made him think of Nancy. Not only of the “party,” but how she’d stood here, in this spot, before they spent their first night together, a memory he didn’t regret and never would. In the past couple months, however, the surrounding context, the evening itself, had started to rust and turn sharp. A close, but blurred reminder of mistakes and decisions he could never take back, let alone make right. But as Steve stood, overlooking the dark backyard, the covered pool, he could sense his association shifting. Less shame, more… hope?

_“That’s… sweet.” _

No girl had ever called him “sweet.” Not even Nancy. And whether he deserved it or not, he’d let this new experience, that _girl_, slip away.

Steve let the curtain fall forward, blocking the view. He may not have messed up anything for his father, but he screwed himself over by being too dense, too chicken to follow through; to stay connected to her.

Just one more thing he’d screwed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First fic! Fun fact: I didn't intend to make a Stephen King reference with the name "Christine." I picked that name because I liked it, without knowing of King's novel. But this Christine is just a girl, I promise. The reference was accidental, so I'm definitely not foreshadowing that this girl is some kind of possessed automobile.
> 
> One of the big motivations for writing this was born out of my incredulity that, in ST3, many of the characters seemed to bounce back pretty quickly from their injuries; but the show also skipped over giving us any specific details of how badly they were hurt. So I wanted to explore that and take a closer look at how that night's physical trauma would have affected Steve's life; hence the list of his wounds.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving a comment!  
( the full music playlist is also on Spotify: https://spoti.fi/2Sy3Jr7 )


	2. Riddles in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an extremely restless night and a brisk morning run, Steve and Robin decorate "Family Video" for Christmas, they debate dream symbolism, and Steve misses a turn on his way home, all of which leads to two impulsive decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I explored the ramifications of the physical trauma from the Battle of Starcourt in chapter 1, here, Steve wrestles with more of the psychological impact of that night. Enjoy!

[ ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0euE9wRUYsvjUxxrp1Tk4u)

**DECEMBER 13th**

_ Steve sat in the back of an ambulance parked outside what remained of Starcourt Mall. He and everyone else had been carted out into ambulances, checked for vitals, quizzed for their personal information, then wrapped in blankets and left to catch their breath, legs dangling off the back of tailgates. He and Robin had gotten separated. He couldn’t see her or anyone else through the crowd of firefighters, paramedics, police officers, and other emergency personnel, strangers he couldn’t identify. He wanted to know that everyone was all right — especially the kids — but once he’d stopped moving, the pain in his head, his eye, and his ribs had intensified as the adrenaline finally started to wear off. _

_ And then, across the parking lot, rounding one of the fire engines, he saw Christine. _

_ Steve stood up at the sight of her; as though he expected her. Too quickly, though. Pain shot through his side, making him sway on the spot, wincing, and sit down again. _

_ She was suddenly there, in front of him, her gaze raking over his bruised and battered face. Her own displayed a mix of horror and confusion. She lifted one hand and let it hover over his swollen, bloody eye; the cuts and slashes around it. The other, she entwined with his. _

_ He mumbled something about it not being “that bad” and “looks worse than it is,” but his fingers gripped hers tightly; saying more than any words could. _

_ She eased closer, slowly, to give him time to move away if he needed or wanted to. He still didn’t look at her, but neither did he stop her. Even slower, she closed the space between them, sliding her face beside his. She kissed his safe, unharmed cheek, then lingered there, in his space, listening for his breathing. _

_ A simple, innocent gesture that felt familiar. Intimate. Like they’d known each other for years. Like she’d kissed him before. Many times. _

_ His head turned and tilted forward, just enough to rest against hers. His eyes slid closed. He pulled their clasped hands closer to him; up, against his chest. _

_ “I’m fine,” he said. “Or, I _ will _ be.” _

_ His eyes creaked open — the one more than the other — and he smiled in an attempt at his usual, casual manner. After a moment, so did she. They laughed, but immediately he sucked in his breath with a grimace. His whole body tensed, just for a fraction of a second, before he let his breath out again slowly and relaxed, his other hand clutching his side. He still cradled her arm against him, though. _

_ Some of his hair fell forward, across his face. She brushed it aside, then started to drift back from him, drawing her hand away from his neck, but he pulled against her movement — gently. She stopped, her face still very near to his. He opened his eyes again and they swung back and forth between hers, which shone, overbright. He suddenly knew, could suddenly feel her distress — the horror reeling through her, the ache wrenching her heart, and her yearning to hold him close, relieved he was alive, refraining only out of fear that she might hurt him or make his injuries worse. _

_ “Hey,” he said, reaching up to her face. “ _ Hey… _ ” _

_ She swallowed hard, and all thought dissolved as he leaned forward, the distance between them closing rapidly… _

Steve lurched forward in his bed, gasping for air and covered in a cold sweat. His heart raced as though he’d woken from a nightmare instead of a surreal, almost pleasant re-imagining of a definitely _un_pleasant night.

He looked around his room. The windows were half-lit with dim, mid-dawn light.

_ Just a dream_, he told himself; his racing pulse. His mind reeled over the clash of images; what really happened that night tangled with this new, conjured version.

He hadn’t been incapacitated or isolated like that. Well, okay, maybe at first, but not the whole night. His injuries would all sneak up on him later; he wouldn’t really feel the impact until several days later after they’d take root. But that night, he’d gotten up and walked around to check on everyone. He hadn’t been cut off or unable to move, so why had he recalled it like that? He’d wandered over to talk to Nancy and Jonathan just as Will had jumped up and raced over to Joyce. He had watched El watch them have their emotional reunion from a few feet away. That was where he felt isolated. The Wheelers arrived on the scene shortly after, followed by the Mayfields, the Sinclairs, and Ms. Henderson. Steve and Robin weren’t visited by their parents until they got to the hospital so many hours later. No one showed up to hold him close or cry over his safety. The only people who cared were those banged up along with him.

It had been a rough night all around. Steve avoided dwelling on it in his waking life and in his sleep. He didn’t dream about those events often, but when he did, they were either disjointed memories in his sleep; combing through warped and hazy flashbacks from the Fourth of July and what the kids had dubbed “the battle of Starcourt,” or they were vivid, bombastic. Even frightening. Steve had thought _battle _had been a bit melodramatic, but his subconscious must have disagreed and, upon occasion, decided to compensate. Sometimes, multiple Mind-Flayers tore the shopping mall apart, accompanied by hordes of demogorgons and demodogs. Other times, the kids got hurt, then killed. Or he relived the interrogation and the beating, but his captors weren’t always the Russians from his memory. Sometimes they were strangers; shrouded, hulking figures with obscured faces.

Always a warped rehash of those big events.

_ Until now, apparently. _

Still shaking slightly, Steve reached for his watch on the bedside table. 6:24 am. Earlier than he’d planned to get up, but he doubted he could get back to sleep now, even for another twenty-five minutes.

He dressed — wool socks, thermal layers, vest, and running shoes — and padded downstairs in the silent, still-sleeping household. He downed a quick breakfast, then headed outside to grab the morning paper off the front stoop. He started shivering as soon as the cold hit him, but he scanned the paper’s headlines and waited to adjust to the early morning chill.

The paper was full of the usual stuff — national politics, financial stats, and holiday specials — but, as usual, nothing local or suspicious jumped out. Steve didn’t expect to find anything, not anymore, but since the frenzy in July, they’d all agreed to check the papers religiously. So, every day, before his morning run, Steve found himself skimming newsprint.

Having flipped through the whole paper, he spun it into its former roll and slid it back into its plastic sleeve so his parents would be none the wiser. They probably wouldn't care one way or the other, but the instinct had been locked in. Cover your tracks.

He tossed it back on the bottom step and set off at a jog.

Before his injuries, running had only been a small part of an extensive athletics routine. Now, it was all he had left. The doctors kept telling him that, if he hoped to return to any contact sport, he’d have had to wait.

_ But keep at it_, they’d said._ The running is helping. _

Plus, at first, it hurt like hell. From being capable of a six-ish minute mile on average, he'd barely managed to go a few feet before he'd thought he would suffocate and die. He’d felt broken and fragile and damaged beyond repair, but morning after morning, breathing got easier; less labored, less painful. He'd run farther and started feeling like he was building towards something again, really training, rather than just limping, desperately, from day to day.

As he pounded the dirt that morning, though, he couldn’t shake the unease he’d woken up to. Flashes of the dream kept appearing behind his eyes. Ghost-sensations kept creeping up on him. The worry in Christine’s eyes, the distress that she’d felt, that he’d felt _through_ her somehow… the feel of her hand in his…

He slowed to a stop to catch his breath earlier than routine required, but his skin felt clammy and cold. Perhaps the run was a mistake.

Both of his parents were awake by the time he got back to the house, but they only exchanged quick greetings. Steve got cleaned up and left early for work.

Keith was delighted. He set Steve to task immediately on transforming all of Family Video into a “holiday wonderland,” starting with unpacking a slew of boxes from storage — all Christmas trappings and associated utilities; lights, extension cords, clips, ties, etc.

Robin arrived shortly after Steve had finished stacking the last of the boxes and begun opening them, sorting through the chaos within.

The two of them, plus a couple of other employees spent several hours de-tangling strings of lights, climbing ladders both inside and out to bedeck the storefront, shelves, doorways, and otherwise boring walls. Keith had barked out orders, always assigning the hardest, most tedious tasks to Steve, who suspected yet another of Keith’s attempts to make him miserable. But he and Robin made a good team — as usual — and spent an altogether cheerful morning hanging plastic snowflakes and neon garland, braiding and connecting extension cords, and turning the place into a festive landscape without the slightest complaint or difficulty.

Keith grew surly with disappointment and before long, disappeared into the back office, leaving them to it.

“Wouldn’t have taken you to be so full of Christmas spirit,” Robin admitted.

“What, you think Band and Theater are the only ones that do fundraisers?” he said. “Basketball team had dozens of ’em. Plus Student Government.”

Robin balked. “_You _ ran for office?”

“Nah, just helped out.”

“Why?”

“I had friends that were involved. And I, uh…” He cleared his throat, glad not to be looking at her. “I dated a few girls that were, too.”

“Of all the life skills to take with you,” Robin said, which made Steve laugh. She didn’t press it any further.

A “featured videos” display was the last thing to go up. Steve began assembling the tangle of flimsy cardboard limbs while Robin opened the last box; a delivery of Christmas films that they already had in stock, but newer copies that had been set out.

Christmas music played over the tinny speakers while Robin scanned the new tapes into the database to log them in the book behind the counter. Steve continued to manipulate cardboard, the display starting to take shape when the mechanical bell chimed. Customers.

He glanced up — and froze. A woman and a teenage girl had walked in; probably mother and daughter. The woman he barely noticed, but the girl… her hair, though not especially long, was a familiar shade of dark brown and she wore glasses. Though thick and square-shaped, they were also metallic gold. Before he could stop himself, Steve was already recalling the way Christine’s glasses caught the light, how long her hair was, and how unique it looked on her.

_ Dammit! _He had been thoroughly distracted, and now —

“What happened?”

Steve swung around. Robin watched him, puzzled, between three giant stacks of tapes, practically barricaded behind the desk. “Holiday cheer run out?”

He turned away again, just in time to see the two customers dip between a pair of shelves.

“Is it weird to dream about someone right after you met them?” he heard himself ask.

Robin lowered the hand-held scanner and cocked a single eyebrow. “Um. What?”

Steve tried to backpedal. “Nothing. Never mind. I — ”

“Who are you dreaming about?” Her mouth curved now, slightly lopsided like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to fight the smile or not.

Steve sighed heavily and recounted — in an undertone — a condensed version of the dinner with the Sanders.

When he’d finished, Robin stared at him, smile gone, mouth agape. “And you _didn't get her number? _”

“Chill, it’s not a big deal.”

Robin groaned and let her head fall backward.

“Ugh, _ dingus_,” she said to the ceiling.

“And how was I supposed to get it, huh? Just ask her, right there, in front of our parents? All _four _of ’em? No, thank you. Besides, we only spent a total of fifteen minutes together. Any longer than that, and she’d probably get bored with me.”

“‘Bored’?”

“Yeah. She’s a nerd, like the rest of you, and I’m just a jock with an embarrassingly low IQ.”

“Former jock,” Robin corrected him.

“What the hell would we possibly talk about other than our temporary shared post-high school humiliation?”

“What about your children?”

Steve rolled his eyes at the shorthand for Dustin and the rest. “What about ’em?”

“Are _ they _bored with you?”

They weren’t, but it grew more likely every day. Dustin had actually mentioned _college _last week after he received a brochure in the mail for MIT. Apparently, it was not the first university flyer to show up in his mailbox, either. Brainiac that he was, it was only a matter of time before scholarships started lining up for him and the others, despite how young they still were. Even Max, who wasn’t a science nerd, had taken to athletics; cross country, soccer, and track. This had prompted a new link between her and Steve, as the only two athletes in their bizarre little family. She was good, too, and therefore bound to be scooped up by a college scout for one sport or another.

And then, in an instant, every single one of those kids would be gone.

The mix of reactions all this stirred up in Steve made him nauseous.

“Steve?” Robin had leaned over next to him.

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“So, why would she be any different? If she likes you, then — ”

“I don’t know that she does.”

He recalled the moment when Christine had turned to face him and stared directly into his eyes. He’d felt suspended. Almost motion-sick. But not in a totally bad way. Just alien. Unprecedented.

Robin squinted at him. “You were hitting on every girl who walked into Scoops Ahoy — ”

“So?”

“_So_, nothing like that’s ever stopped you before.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the point. She’s different.”

Robin rolled her eyes and made another annoyed sound.

“Or I’m different,” Steve grumbled. “I don’t know.”

He waited for a growl of irritation from Robin, but it didn’t come.

Instead, she said, “wait.”

He didn’t like the way her pitch dropped or the way she leaned back, her eyebrows arched.

“You like her.”

Steve didn’t like the way she was grinning now, either.

“So?” he snapped.

“Have you ever actually liked a girl at this stage? Before you’ve actually started going out with her?”

He opened his mouth to fire back some kind of retort — but none came. Because she’d nailed it.

Robin laughed, presumably at whatever face he was making. “You don’t have to look so panicked. It’s a good thing. It’s _ growth _.”

Steve wasn’t so sure he agreed. “Oh, yeah?” he said sarcastically.

Robin was undeterred. “_Yeah._ Getting her number meant something. Other than just empty digits to reestablish your former social standing.”

Steve stood there, speechless until he heard footsteps coming up behind him.

He moved aside as the two women approached the counter with a cassette in their hands.

Robin continued to stare at Steve for a few seconds longer, before she disengaged and flashed a brilliant smile at the customers, ringing them up.

Relieved, Steve nudged the now-finished video display further aside. Flimsy and light without any tapes to weigh it down, the thing was a riot of Christmas colors; emblazoned with splashes of green and red, a gold backdrop, and a smattering of generic white shapes intended to be snowflakes, but warped slightly by the curvature of the cardboard.

From the counter, Steve lifted one of the already-logged stacks of videos and began transferring them, one at a time, onto the bare shelves. When he was finished, a messy collage of festive and classic covers stared back at him; _ Meet Me In St. Louis, How The Grinch Stole Christmas, Miracle on 34th Street, It’s A Wonderful Life, Mickey’s Christmas Carol, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_, and a bunch of others.

He’d seen them all. Honestly, he’d always really enjoyed Christmas; not because of any warm and fuzzy family connection, but it had always been a fun time of year; a treasured break from school, incredible food, snow-centric sports and games, and lots of time with friends.

How times had changed.

His family was small, but their house had always been loud and full on Christmas Day. Relatives and friends would drop in throughout the morning and afternoon and very often stayed through into the evening and dinner. Steve and his friends rarely stayed inside; they’d escape outdoors, despite the cold, to find a spot for sledding or just throw a football around. As they got older, they’d sneak booze and cigarettes out too, hiding or stashing whatever was left (if anything was left) before they’d trudge back in for dinner, by which time, the place was usually be overwhelmed with people and noise and food and it was the best. 

Last Christmas, as a result, had been a real shock. Steve had never experienced isolation in the middle of chaos before. No girlfriend — no friends at all really — and family members that acted as though nothing had changed, but there was a palpable awkward vibe.

After break was over, he retained barely any connection to the team, let alone other endeavors like snowball fights or skiing trips. School became a welcome distraction (even if he still was still just getting by), with his athletic reputation still intact throughout the student body. It was mostly just white noise that helped pass the time. _Lonely _didn’t even begin to cover it.

Scanning the video store's festive video display before him, adjusting the spacing between cassettes, he just felt numb. Maybe a little queasy.

He had no idea what to expect from the holidays this year. He was still on his own for the most part, but he’d grown accustomed to it. Or, at least, a great deal more than he’d been a year ago. He couldn’t rely on school for a distraction, but he had the job, at least.

Standing in front of the finished construct and its contents, the array of black and white and vivid colors, his spirits couldn’t help but lift a little.

Steve was almost through his second stack of tapes when the mechanical bell chimed again and the store was, once more, devoid of customers.

Robin planted her elbow on the counter, held her chin in her hand, and looked down at him. “I think you should call her.”

It took a few seconds for Steve’s mind to catch up. “What?”

“Christine. Try to get her number through your dad.”

“Are you serious?” He looked past her, just to be sure Keith didn’t reappear. “I’m not gonna do that.”

“Why not?”

Steve glanced around again before he muttered even more quietly. “Because last night… I dreamed I was back at Starcourt.”

Robin’s whole demeanor shifted. She visibly tensed. Her posture straightened a little. The breezy, teasing vibe she’d been exuding ceased along with her half-smirk. They hadn’t spoken directly about Starcourt since August. There had been a sort of silent agreement to keep it that way. Just saying _ Starcourt _aloud felt like he’d uttered some kind of vile swear word.

“And what’s that got to do with Christine?”

“She was there. After. She came to see me.”

“In the hospital?”

“In the parking lot. While I was in the ambulance. It was like we knew each other then. Like we were…together.”

Robin was quiet for a long time. When she finally spoke again, her tone was pensive, quiet, but certain.

“It’s still not weird,” she said to the countertop.

Steve shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not gonna try to get her number or try to call her, even if my Dad comes home and drops it my lap.”

Robin’s head swung back up, her face contorted with disbelief. “Why?”

“Because I’m not. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“You are such a _ moron_,” she said, but with the slightest trace of a smile.

They continued to debate the subject, off and on, for the remainder of their shifts. Neither of them budged, but the back-and-forth quasi-argument (to which they were far from strangers now) reminded him that, also different from last winter, he had a friend this year; not just a person he knew by association, or by the customs of high-school politics. A decent human being. Someone he was genuinely glad to know. It had been one of the things he’d been silently grateful for over Thanksgiving. Between Robin being a part of his life and his conversation with Christine — however short-lived or isolated her company may have been — the tension around his solitude, the shame of where he’d landed in the past fourteen months, had loosened a little.

Still, by the time his shift was over a few hours later, his sense of dread was starting to creep back in.

He gathered up his things from the break room and ducked back out into the main part of the store to say a quick goodbye to Robin, who was staying to work a double.

“Hey, I’m outta here,” he said.

“You’re a chicken,” she replied without looking at him.

He actually laughed. “Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow.”

Outside his car windows, the town of Hawkins had been transformed, just like the store; decked out to the brim with garland, endless strings of lights, ceramic stars and baubles, ribbons, wreaths, and (of course) dozens of decorated pine trees, all of varying size and color.

In the car, the swirl of colors flew by beyond his frosted, salt-clouded windshield.  
Had Christine seen any of this array, this spectacle? Was her family even still in town, or had they only been here for Thanksgiving, then returned to DC for Christmas?

_I wonder if I could ask dad without making it too obvious — _

He shook his head fiercely. _No. Stop it. _

He’d meant what he told Robin. The likelihood that she had thought about that night — about their minuscule amount of time together — was pretty slim. The sooner he accepted that, the better.

He was jolted back into the present moment when he realized that his mind had wandered long enough to make him sail right past the necessary left turn he needed to return home.

He should have been more annoyed, but home meant away from town and into his glum, remote neighborhood, and, while he had nowhere else to go, no other plans, he knew he didn’t want to go and re-quarantine himself just yet.

_ Now what? _

It summed up both his current situation and his life as a whole. Nowhere to return to, and no clear destination to move towards.

He was seized with an irrational urge to do something; keep moving, try anything.

_ Like what? _A shift of the previous question. A shift in him, perhaps?

Frank’s suggestion came floating back to him. _ Ever thought about volunteering?_

The Fifth Street Community Center, as Steve recalled, was just a few blocks from where his car currently idled at a traffic light.

Could he do that? Was he really ready for that?

He wasn’t sure until the light turned green and he made the right turn.

As he drove through town, the traffic grew lighter, the space between buildings opened up, and his pulse quickened.

_ Am I really going to do this? _

He spotted the fields first — all empty — and then saw the sign, which looked a lot like the ones outside the high school and he couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad omen.

Steve maneuvered the car onto a gravel drive, which curved upward and the building materialized behind a concrete parking lot that was completely empty. He parked in a vacant space right in front and got out of the car immediately, surprising himself by how quickly he strode up to the pair of glass front doors. Before trying to open it, he scanned the collage of signs and applied lettering for a list of hours.

_ Tues-Fri — 9am - 8pm  
_ _Saturday — 8am - 10pm_  
_Sunday — 8am - 7pm  
_ _ Closed Mondays _

Steve fought back a laugh. _Figures I’d pick the wrong day. _

Back in the car, he once again didn’t know what he was doing or where he was going. He would return on his next day off, but he felt deflated and gloomy all over again. He’d wanted to do something active. Different. It wasn’t so much a swing and miss — more like his chance to step up to the plate was postponed — but he suddenly realized how important it was, how much he wanted it. Not the going to the community center itself or explicitly becoming a volunteer, but doing something out of character. Taking an active step towards a new life. Taking an active step towards _any _thing. Yeah, that prospect was really compelling.

He could wait another two days.

Still, he had looped back to his initial question.

_ Now what? _

He drove back towards the main town square, planning on going home after all when a new, absurd idea struck him out of nowhere. He laughed out loud. It was hilarious and pointless. Stupid, even! No way was it even worth considering.

Five minutes later, however, his dented, scratched, and almost unrecognizable BMW turned into the Public Library.

Unlike the community center, this parking lot was full of cars. Definitely open.

Steve shut off the engine and, also unlike at the community center, he stayed in the car to stare up at the drab, brown building for a few minutes, trying to remember the last time he was here. The lapse had been long enough to make everything about the exterior drastically unfamiliar.

The interior, too. Walking in, Steve planned on asking for direction, for information, but he hadn’t counted on two things.

One: that it would be so quiet (which he should have). It was like stepping into a damn echo chamber. His footsteps had never sounded so loud.

Two: that the place would be so crowded. In spite of the crammed lot, Steve couldn’t help but marvel at how full the tables were, how many faces dotted the aisles.

_ What are all these people doing here on a Monday afternoon? _

So, instead, he breezed past the front desk and just…wandered around, pretending to browse, but actively scanned the aisles and plaques and spines for any indication of his target.

After an embarrassingly long time — and a few puzzled looks — he thought he finally found it. Alone in the row, his head swung back and forth, checking to make sure no one was watching.

_ Old habits die hard. _

Steve turned back to the shelf in front of him and took a deep breath, almost psyching himself up before he reached for a little burgundy volume and slid it free from the shelf.

The cover was plain, fabric-lined, and well-worn.

The Fellowship of the Ring by JRR Tolkien.

Steve had to smile.

_ No going back now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the dream portion of this chapter was how this whole story started. That scene came to me, fully-formed, as an alternative version to how that night might have gone and eventually led to the bigger story. I thought that the scene would only exist as a standalone piece or just as an idea for a while until I realized that fit in here as a dream sequence.
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving me a comment to let me know.  
Full playlist available on Spotify: https://spoti.fi/2Sy3Jr7


	3. Three Is Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes an unexpected choice when confronted with the ghost of his former life.

**DECEMBER 28th, 1985**

Steve couldn't take it anymore.

He leaned back from the table and covered his face with his hands. His eyes burned and his vision had gone bleary with the edges of exhaustion. He wasn't tired, though. He was _bored_ — yet simultaneously riled up from disappointment in himself.

He just couldn’t understand this. Why would anyone _like_ this stuff?

Why couldn’t _he_ like it?

Steve almost laughed — the urge took over him so suddenly he could barely contain it. He’d spent all these years, a countless amount of effort avoiding any affiliation with nerds and their trappings, but it turned out he needn’t have bothered. He couldn’t be a nerd if he wanted to.

He slapped the book shut and stood. He grabbed his backpack and glared down at the little green cover. He considered leaving the thing there for someone else to find; someone who actually understood it.

A voice in his head — which sounded remarkably like Dustin — chimed in. _Your need is greater than theirs. You must — not — give up!_

Steve grumbled and snatched up the volume before heading for the door.

It was stupid. Why continue to put himself through this? Who did it benefit? It’s not like he had anything to prove or anyone to impress since he’d probably never see Christine again, and so this was a waste of time.

He had emerged through the thick, glass doors before he remembered to stash the book. Despite everything, he still didn’t want anyone to catch him with it; old instincts still firing. He hastily slung his backpack around, not watching where he was going. In the courtyard, he nearly knocked into someone passing him in the opposite direction.

“Steve?”

He stopped.

_No way._

He glanced over his shoulder, ready and expecting to be wrong about the voice.

He wasn’t. Christine peered back at him; not some phantom, dreamt-up version of her from out of his imagination, but the real person. She stood, half-turned towards the library door. One hand hovered above the brass handle, the other clutched two books against her chest. She wore the same grey peacoat from the night they met along with a burgundy newsboy cap — which looked insanely cute — a thin, blue scarf, and an expression of uncertainty that dissipated as she got a full view of his face. That left surprise and incredulity, probably matching his own.

Until she smiled — or, at least, started to. Her face didn’t split into a huge grin or anything, but it was enough to send Steve right back to the dinner table all those weeks back when her unease had drawn away for a moment. Just like then, the barest trace of delight on her was radiant. And catching, apparently — he found himself grinning.

“Hey,” he said. He released his bag, letting it swing around and settle against his back. She lowered the arm hovering in midair and wrapped it, too, around the books. Her hands were covered in thin, maroon gloves that matched her cap. 

“How are you?” he asked. About the most innocuous question under normal circumstances, but it had been poised at the front of his mind since Thanksgiving. It had settled there sometime after the dinner — not that night, and not even necessarily the next day. He couldn’t pinpoint it, but at some point, it had sprouted and grown, ready to spring. He’d wanted to call her to ask. He’d entertained the notion of going along with his dad and Frank to one of their outings — though there hadn’t been many — on the off-chance Christine’s name might come up. _How is she?_ He couldn’t just come right out and ask since he’d promised not to say anything about her breakdown, but if Jack or even Frank mentioned her of his own free will… Steve might have been able to inquire, generally, what she was up to.

He’d even harbored a covert hope that, if the Sanders were still in town, he might cross paths with Christine somewhere.

Entirely wishful thinking, though; not a real expectation.

Yet here they stood, facing each other in front of the Library of all places.

It made perfect sense, of course. She was a nerd. She had “comfort reads.” 

Her eyes darted down. Nervous. Her cheeks looked pink. From cold or embarrassment? Were they pink before?

The smile stayed. She drew a deep breath. “I’m…okay. Better. Apparently, a nervous breakdown really helps.”

She looked back up at him. “I’m actually glad to run into you. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it.”

Steve’s stomach lurched.

“I wanted to tell you — in person — how much I appreciate…what you did.”

“What did I do?”

“Helped me out. Gave me that space to get all that shit out of my head. I hadn’t realized how much it was eating me up.”

Steve shook his head. “We thanked each other that night, remember?”

“Yeah, but I was still all… caught up in it. I wanted to say it, officially or whatever, when I wasn’t in the middle of venting or blubbering.”

“You weren’t blubbering.”

She gave a lopsided grin that indicated she didn’t believe him. “Well, either way, you didn’t make me feel stupid. Even if you’ve been laughing at me ever since, even if you thought — or still think — that I’m a pathetic loser, you didn’t act like it in front of me and that made me feel… seen. For the first time in a while.”

She so closely echoed his own thoughts, a chill slid down his spine. 

“So,” she said, gathering herself up with a deep intake of breath. “Thank you. Officially.” She gave a curt little nod, then released her breath with a small laugh.

“You’re welcome,” Steve said. “Officially.”

Her eyes darted around again. “Well, I — ” Her eyes landed on something to his right, then narrowed, her brows creasing. “What’s that?”

He looked down. She’d spotted the little burgundy volume in his hand. He hadn’t gotten it in his bag before she’d called his name.

He considered twisting it around, pretending it was some other title, but the spine was facing her; she’d probably already read the title. Or recognized it, considering she’d read the thing who knew how many times already. He could pretend it was for someone else, but it was a book, not some kind of contraband. 

So he held it up. Her gaze flicked from the cover to his face several times.

“You’re reading Lord of the Rings?”

“Apparently,” he said.

“What for?”

He shrugged. “I don’t — or didn’t, I guess — know anything about it, so I thought I’d… give it a try?”

“And what’s the verdict so far?”

He focused on the book again. “Oh, well, you know…” He sneaked a look back up at her waiting, eager eyes, and couldn’t proceed with the bullshit answer.

He let out a heavy breath. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really get it. I thought about trying to watch the movie instead, but — ”

“Don’t,” she warned. 

He lifted an eyebrow.

“No, seriously, don’t. Or, at least, finish the book first. I implore you.”

“Why?”

“It’s just… it’s fine, it’s harmless, but… you’d miss a lot.” 

He was about to reply but hesitated when he realized that she was shivering. Her shoulders were raised, making the scarf, however thin, bunch around her neck and hide part of her face.

“You look like you’re freezing,” he said.

She gave a trembling shrug, which made him chuckle.

“Do you… ” It was all he could manage before an uncomfortable lump had formed in his throat. _Damn it! Why?_ He’d done this so many times, but the words — intangible and awkward — wriggled through his concentration like caught fish, trying to escape. “There’s a diner around the corner. You want to walk over? Warm up, chat a little? Or something?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “What, now?”

“Or later.” Steve waved a hand, an attempt at a casual air. “Whatever. If you want.”

Her eyes swung back and forth between his — a mannerism he remembered — searching. She squinted ever so slightly. Combined, it was like she was waiting for more; like she didn’t totally believe what she saw or heard.

_She’s confused?_

“Unless you don’t like coffee?” he added.

He knew this wasn’t true — he recalled how she’d consumed her single cup before he’d barely started on his, although, as he’d pondered that night, it could have just been nerves —

“I like coffee,” she said.

“Well, all right then.”

“I…okay.” Her chin dipped down as she surveyed the books in her arm, then came up again. “I just have to run inside to return these real quick.”

“Sure,” he said.

She turned and reached for the door, a single twitch of motion. She hesitated, casting him a last, uncertain, quizzical look over her shoulder — evaluating.

_What is she looking for?_

Christine disappeared through the doors, leaving him to stand and ponder the bizarre nature of this whole encounter, until she re-emerged and, without speaking, they walked to the diner.

Steve had been here a few times; it was cozy without being cramped and the food was good. The coffee was better.

He’d never been on a date here, though.

_Wait, does this qualify as a date?_

He thought it did. As the hostess greeted them, he glanced at Christine. He hoped it did. 

They settled across from each other into a fabric-lined booth with patches across the back rests and creaked with movement. 

They took their time removing their jackets, shifting aside the napkin-wrapped silverware, the upturned mugs in their saucers. He noticed that Christine kept her scarf on, one hand hovering on the knot while she scanned the menu.

“You’ve been here before?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Any recommendations?”

He gave the best review he could, bizarrely distracted by the realness of her across from him, trying not to just stare openly at her. Flashes of his dream kept popping up in his mind — her face riddled with worry and concern and familiarity — in stark contrast to the calm and collected, however nervous face across from him.

A waitress strolled up to the table and greeted them. After she took their drink orders and walked away again, an awkward silence threatened to settle between them. 

Steve pounced on an unwise, irrational urge to fill that space before it landed. “So… can I ask you something… a little personal?”

To his relief, she grinned.

“Because we haven’t already done that?” she said.

“Doesn’t hurt to check.”

“You can ask. I might not answer, though,” she said.

“Fair.” Steve paused, holding his breath for some reason. “Why didn’t you want your parents to know that you were so upset? I mean, you seem really close to them and they don’t seem like… well, they seem really different from my parents. Or am I way off there?”

“No, we’re close. I didn’t think they’d be mad or weird or dismissive or anything. It’s more like… I know that it would have made them sad, too. It still would. I care about them so much and they do so much for me that I just… I don’t know, sometimes I hold back from them a little. Because I don’t want to cause them any hurt. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah. I follow you, but… wow.” He shook his head. “That’s just so different from my parents.”

He was flooded with opposing forces of envy and recognition. More than ever, he and Christine seemed to be inverse versions of each other, yet both operating from matching core instincts to hide.

Before either of them could say more, the waitress returned. While she took their orders — just small breakfast pastries as a midday snack — a flutter of movement at the far end of the restaurant drew Steve’s eye.

Two girls at the end of the counter sat with their heads bent together, pointing and gesturing in his direction. Despite the distance, Steve could tell they were giggling, covering embarrassed, excited smiles with their hands as they swiveled back and forth towards him, tossing their hair; blonde curls and sleek, dark bangs. He didn’t know them, but even in the few seconds it took him to register all this, they most definitely recognized him. Probably in some way connected to the letterman jacket the brunette was wearing — swimming in, actually. Clearly belonging to a dude; a boyfriend or brother perhaps.

Steve tried to ignore them, turning his attention back to Christine as the waitress walked away, but Christine slid towards the end of the booth.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. “I’m just going to wash my hands real quick.”

Steve nodded as she left the table. A few seconds later, the sway of blonde curls appeared in the corner of his eye. He looked up slowly as the two girls advanced on the table.

“Are you… Steve Harrington?” the blonde asked.

“Unfortunately,” Steve said.

“I knew it,” the brunette whispered. 

“I’m Nicole,” said the other girl. “This is Teri.”

Teri actually gave him a small wave.

“Nice…to meet you.” Steve had become so accustomed to his new anonymity — and until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much — but this interaction gave him flashbacks to his high school heyday. That felt like a lifetime ago, worlds away from the reaction he’d received from Scoops Ahoy’s female clientele.

Old impulses swarmed his concentration like a reflex — _flirt, charm, win ’em over_ — but he resisted, even as they inched closer to the table. Nicole swept a hand over her curls and dipped her chin a little lower. Teri leaned against the booth’s edge.

“Have we met before?” Steve asked.

“We wish!” Nicole squeaked.

“We recognized you. There are tons of pictures of you in the gym trophy cases,” Teri explained.

“Ones in the main hall, too,” Nicole added.

For some reason, hearing this made Steve’s stomach turn. Testaments to worthless accomplishments; to a person he no longer resembled.

He picked up his mug and muttered, “great,” before taking a swig of his coffee, which had sunk just south of lukewarm. _If only you knew, ladies, how the mighty have fallen_.

He sank back against the booth, goodwill deflating, but the girls hardly seemed to notice.

“What are you up to these days?” Nicole asked.

He shrugged without looking at them. “Working,” he said. But then a glint of something — a waver of possibility — stirred in the back of his mind. Enough that a grin tugged at his mouth.

“Maybe some volunteer work,” he said softly.

“Oh, wow, really?” Teri cooed.

“How noble,” Nicole murmured.

Steve glanced back up at them, sure they were making fun of him — that this flirtatious act was some kind of joke or hilarity at his expense — but they still seemed sincere. He just stared, silently, as they continued.

“We were wondering if you had any advice — ”

“You know, words of wisdom — ”

“ — for those of us who have yet to graduate — ”

“ — just, you know, what it’s like — ”

“ — out there in the real world?”

The back-and-forth seemed both rehearsed and somehow completely improvised.

Steve shrugged again. He couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t betray the severity of his mistakes both during and after high school, all of which led to his current, lame circumstances. _Just be nice? Be kind to people? Don’t be assholes? It’s not as hard as it sounds and it won’t eat away at you years later._

He looked between their bright, eager faces and adopted as cool a smile as he could manage. “Nah. Just enjoy it. It’ll be gone before you know it. Soak it all in.”

Steve thought it sounded a bit corny, but their expressions became confused and wowed all the same. Clearly not at all what they were expecting.

Teri’s mouth eased back into an alluring smile. “So cryptic…”

“That’s not cryptic,” Nicole teased her, “your brother said the same thing last week…”

“Yeah, but what does he know?”

Steve realized that over the course of this conversation, they had moved closer to him. Teri had actually rested her knee on the seat opposite him and leaned on the booth.

Realizing how this might look if Christine came back and saw this happening, he felt a panicked urge to see them go.

“Anything else?” Nicole said, with a pretend sort of disinterest.

“Listen, ladies, it was very nice of you to say hello” — some part of him, the part attached so closely to those old instincts, couldn’t believe these words were coming out of his mouth — “but I’m actually on a date, so…”

He gestured across from himself — a substantial distance from where Teri half-lounged — and then out, down the walkway from whence they’d come, hoping they’d take the hint.

Both girls’ mouths fell open in almost comical shock.

“That girl who was here before?” Nicole said.

“Yes,” Steve said.

“_Her?_” Teri did move up, out of the booth, looked down on it like she’d just realized she’d been sitting next to something sticky.

“Yes,” Steve said again, feeling a nonsensical rise of resentment.

“Ugh, gag me,” Teri said with a revolted expression that morphed into a broad smile as she stood and moved to stand next to Nicole, who shook her head in disbelief.

“We thought she was your unfortunate cousin or something,” Nicole said, giving him a condoling look.

“Seriously, how does anyone go out in public like that?”

“For real — ”

“Wait.” Teri’s head swung back towards Steve, her broad smile shifted into a cold, cruel smirk. “Is that the volunteering you were talking about? Taking out the clinically ugly or something?”

Beside her, Nicole snickered.

“_Hey_.” The snap in Steve’s voice silenced them both. Their laughter faltered.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

“Do what?” Teri asked.

“Be… mean. Be _rude_.” Steve thought of Robin — one of the coolest people he’d ever met, and could have known so much earlier, could have spent his high school days with instead of wasting that precious time with Tommy and Carol and hordes of admirers whose names he could no longer remember — and he hadn’t even known she existed. Who else had he overlooked?

He cringed, visibly. “You want advice? Don’t just write people off, don’t…”

He couldn’t articulate the words, and even if he did, he knew they wouldn’t land. If he’d heard someone tell him this a year ago, he’d have laughed in their face. Besides, he could tell from the girls’ growing frowns and furrowed brows that he’d lost them already.

Their loss, same as his.

“Whatever. I don’t care. Just don’t say that kind of shit to me, okay? And yes, I _am_ on a date. With _her_. So scram. I already asked you once.”

They made matching shocked noises –– deep scoffs that teetered on unladylike snorts. Nicole sprung away from the table while Teri flipped her hair and pursed her lips.

“Oh, but _we’re_ rude?”

“He is _so_ not cool anymore,” Nicole agreed.

Steve picked up his coffee cup, raising it in a mock-toast. “Spread that around, will you?”

They scoffed again and departed. He didn’t watch them go, realizing that he was shaking slightly. It was the sensation of waning adrenaline, something he’d frequently experienced after a foul and taking a crucial free throw; stakes suddenly high with the fate of the game and his teammates weighing on his shoulders. Even if he made the shot — which he usually did — those tremors chased the elation.

His thoughts still swirled around this observation –– what shot had he just taken, exactly? –– when Christine reappeared. He tensed, weirdly afraid that he wouldn’t see her the same as he had just a few minutes earlier. His rush to her defense, his moment of conviction, had it been a fluke? Those two girls, would-be clones of old girlfriends and cohorts, brought with them the ghost of his old life and his not-quite-gone attitude threatened to rear up; to sneak in and possess him.

But as Christine settled back into the booth, finally discarded her scarf, unrolled her napkin and silverware, and sneaked glances at Steve in between, he realized that the shaking was subsiding. He didn’t feel more nervous around her. In fact, he felt more at ease.

He cleared his throat. “Okay, so, I’m wondering something else. Not so personal. Or, at least I don’t think so.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“You said not to watch the movie. The Lord of the Rings one. Why not?”

Christine explained that it just really didn’t do the book justice, that it cheapened the story, that the animation wasn’t great, and as she continued, uninterrupted, she became more and more animated, more passionate. Steve watched, transfixed, as she seemed to come alive, come out of some invisible shell.

That is, until the waitress appeared. Each time, the shell, the disguise, reasserted itself and it took some time to dissolve again.

He was able to draw her back out, though, able to contribute to the conversation, based on random things he’d heard Dustin say. Things that actually matched with what she said. Or at least sounded vaguely familiar.

After a while, she fixed him with a narrow-eyed, inquiring look of her own. “Can I ask why you’re reading the book? Or, trying to?”

He explained as best he could. “All my friends love it. And… I guess I’m tired of being the odd one out, you know?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I just wonder if you’re not enjoying it, you might want to try something else. Something…adjacent.”

“Such as?” He paused, genuinely eager for her suggestion.

She took her time answering; first, staring at the tabletop, then fixing him with a scanning sort of look that he was unprepared for. 

“I’m not sure,” she said at last. “Short stories, maybe? Mysteries? Let me think about it. If you want me to, that is?”

“Yeah,” he said, “think about it. Just get back to me, okay?”

He dared a mildly flirtatious smile, which made the scrutinizing gaze vanish and a smile take its place in return.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve is trying. He's really trying. And that's something that I've appreciated about his character since the close of season one; he's been pretty consistent in trying to do the right thing, even when he doesn't take all that well to something or doesn't understand it. So I'm enjoying leaning into that a bit.
> 
> Also, I realize this feels a little conclusive, but not to worry! There are more chapters to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Full music playlist on Spotify: https://spoti.fi/2Sy3Jr7


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